Tainted Glass
by 1uvakindmom
Summary: Cartoon-verse with a splash of movie-verse. Something was missing from both of their lives, something just on the fringes of consciousness. Something they both longed for, yet if regained threatens to destroy everything...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note and Disclaimer: I don't own Beetlejuice or Lydia or any of the other spooktacular characters from that show/movie which I may borrow for this story. **

**That being said, this is my first attempt at a Beej fan fiction. I would love some honest reviews, as I am new to the fan fiction world, and want this to be good. This is a mix of cartoon-verse and movie-verse, but it's mostly on the cartoon-verse side.**

The bar carried a certain weariness and despair that kept drawing him there night after night. The muted lights and hushed atmosphere helped to keep the patrons anonymous, which was what he wanted. As he sat, hunched over his drink, he never had to concern himself with thoughts of anyone else present knowing or recognizing him. All that mattered in this establishment was: if you paid and didn't cause trouble, then no questions were asked. Thus, shrouded by a thick curtain of stale cigarette smoke, he was able to think. His own cigarette added to the swirling cloud overhead as he took half-hearted drags in an attempt to calm his nerves. Unfortunately, that was never the case. His nightly ritual had become a habit now despite the fact that it did nothing to compose his thoughts. He needed to be alone, and this was simply the best place to do so.

With a flick of his wrist, he downed his glass of whiskey, not at all savoring the warmth it brought to his cold body as he once used to. The bartender knew his routine like clockwork, and a new glass was instantly in place before the seated poltergeist even had to motion for one. It was all a part of the ebb and flow his afterlife had become ever since…he didn't know when. And _that_ was what frustrated him so much and what caused him to return to this seedy hole in the wall so often to drown the pain in the haze of alcohol; a pain that consumed him, yet he was not even aware of _why._

How long had it been now? He had lost count years ago. He only knew that it grew as time went on. It grew, and it _hurt_. It filled him with emotions he didn't want to experience, and he could not even name the source. His few friends believed he had gone even more insane than he already was, but it felt so _real_ that it squeezed at his dead heart and crushed his spirit. He was – pardon the pun – a ghost of his former self; and not even that would form a literal translation of his juice.

He snorted in exasperation and slammed the glass down on the worn counter after swallowing its contents quickly. They were worried about him, his friends and family, making a fuss over him as if he were some invalid. _Him_…of _all _ghosts…the thought was almost comical, _almost_. Between their threats of booking him a session with Doctor Sigmund Void and him escaping here, he would wave them off and dismiss their concerns as unfounded. He would insist he was his same old abnormal self and keep up appearances by floating calmly away, hands jammed in his pockets, and whistling an innocent tune. He had a reputation to keep, after all.

Then come nightfall, after the effort of keeping on the mask, he always found his way here, where his walls crumbled and the mask turned to dust. Only then would the tears sometimes fall hot and unwelcome, grinding his pride into the dirt.

But why…why did his being ache for what he couldn't even identify? Why did he feel like a piece of himself had been torn away, something irreplaceable and precious? What could _possibly _be precious to someone who had never overly cared about anyone or anything (besides himself) in his long afterlife? That involved emotions that were _nice _and (blegh) _lovey_! There was that reputation again…

Disgusted with himself and his rampaging emotions, he downed the next glass the bartender had placed before him. Despite the numbness that was beginning to seep into his mind from the alcoholic fog, it did nothing to quell the feeling of emptiness that refused to leave. He tried to internally reason with himself that he was indeed fine, despite the nagging awareness that he was pining for something that supposedly didn't even exist.

He remembered long ago when pranks and cons were his driving force, creating mayhem and reveling in the chaotic aftermath. And then, one day, it just didn't matter anymore. None of it did….and for _what _reason? As far as he could recall nothing had triggered or led up to it. It seemed as if a switch had been flicked off in his afterlife and his light bulb had inexplicably burned out. One day he was one way, and the next…he was _this._

"But why…" he found himself wondering out loud, an errant tear landing on one of his red tipped fingers. He left it where it lay, his moisture blurred vision glaring at it defiantly as the faint light from the ceiling reflected sickeningly on its surface.

He was vaguely aware that more had begun to fall unbidden, and he found that he didn't even care. His shoulders heaved slightly as he cried silently, lamenting over the unknown. With all his power – almost limitless it seemed – he could not so much as glean a shred of awareness as to why he felt this way.

The bartender always avoided the ghost on nights when he reached this point, attempting to give the poor soul at least a sliver of dignity. The seated poltergeist failed to notice that a new glass had not replaced the empty one, nor did he observe the door to the bar swinging open and a skeleton entering. This individual paused for a moment, adjusting his vision to the dim lighting before scanning the sullen crowd. His golden eyes stopped when he spotted the tell-tale black and white striped suit he was seeking. He made his way over to the ghoul with the smooth movements of an athlete, his strides long and graceful for one with no flesh or muscle.

Upon reaching the ghost at the bar, the skeleton placed a boney hand lightly on his shoulder to gain his attention. His head snapped up in surprise and favored the intruder with a harsh glare as he swiftly wiped away straggling tears with a dirty sleeve.

"Wha' the hell you want, Jacques!?" he growled, attempting to sound intimidating.

His tone of voice did not have the effect he had desired however. It was quite the opposite, actually. The skeleton's bright yellow eyes flickered with pity momentarily as he withdrew his bleach white hand. Pity was _not_ something that was at all welcome, and it did nothing but raise the ire of the poltergeist farther. Pity was for the weak, the powerless, the hopeless…three things he was _not_. How _dare_ Jacques pity him?

"Be-atlejuice…" Jacques said gently, his voice heavy with his French accent, "I knew I would find you 'ere. Your mere called and zey are coming over demain along with Donny, your petit frère. Eet ees late, you should come 'ome and rest."

Beetlejuice face palmed. His parents _and_ annoying brother were coming over? Mostly likely to do the same thing Jacques was doing now; coddle him like some helpless baby. He scowled deeply at the thought and stood up on unsteady feet abruptly. He had to muster more concentration than he would have liked on maintaining his balance in his inebriated state.

"Don' make me juice you outta my face, Jacques, cuz it won't be pleasant, and it _won't_ be in one piece," Beetlejuice said through gritted teeth. "I came here to be alone, _not_ to have to deal with your boney ass."

Jacques sighed, but refused to back down. His eyes narrowed in frustration. "I came 'ere to check on you and 'elp you 'ome, Be-atlejuice. You should be grateful zere are some ghouls who actually still care about your sorry 'ide."

Beetlejuice rarely felt guilt, but now was one of those infrequent moments. It briefly fluttered in his brain and he mentally blamed the alcohol for the flash of uncomfortable emotion. If it registered on his face, Jacques made no indication of noticing it. Beetlejuice knew Jacques was correct, and that was part of what was making the poltergeist feel a war of uneasiness and anger raging in his head. The two had known each other and been neighbors at the roadhouse for centuries, and no matter how many times Beetlejuice pranked him, or was rude to him, or tried to con him, the skeleton remained kind to him. Granted, Jacques was a kind soul and warmhearted with most everyone (and that was quite a feat for someone without a heart), but a vast majority of the Neitherworld could not stand to be in the same zip code as the powerful ghost. He had a reputation, and a rap sheet to match. In fact, Beetlejuice was certain he could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of individuals who gave any care of what happened to him.

"I don't know why ya came either, bone bag, 'Snot like I asked you too," Beetlejuice's voice carried an edge of shame which was barely perceptible to the skeleton. The poltergeist was too proud to ever admit to a fault. His tone was so well controlled that only those who knew him well would have ever picked up on the tinge of emotion there.

"I came out of respect for your mere and our old friendship, mon ami. I just weesh you would tell moi what bothers you so deeply. Zis 'as been going on so long now," Jacques toothy mouth turned down in a frown of concern.

Beetlejuice averted his gaze and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Nuttin's wrong. You should know that by now." His voice then became hushed and his next words were a barely audible whisper, "'Snot like you, or anyone else for that matter, could ever possibly understand, anyways."

Jacques knew Beetlejuice had not meant for him to hear, but he had indeed. The athlete felt a seed of hope begin to take root in his mind. That was the most he had gotten his friend to admit to at all in the last ten years.

"Try me," Jacques goaded.

Beetlejuice's momentary lapse was instantly gone and replaced by a crooked grin that was devoid of any true mirth. "Nah…not hungry," the poltergeist waved a dismissive hand. "Anyways, I prefer a little more meat on my bones, if ya know what I mean."

Jacques shook his head, not at all placated by the fake smile his friend adorned at the moment. The seed of hope had withered into nothing, and he was back at square one. No chisel in existence could crack the façade of the "ghost with the most" at this point. The skeleton sighed in defeat and turned to leave.

"Be-atlejuice," Jacques said in a quiet tone, his back still turned to his friend, "as you contend with whatever eet ees that 'aunts you, never forget there are those of us who do care."

With that said, the skeleton made his way out of the bar. Beetlejuice's eyebrows knitted in frustration, but he still would not let Jacques get the last word.

"And you never forget that _I'm_ the one that does the haunting, bone head, not the other way around!" He shouted after Jacques just before the door closed behind him.

A few of the patrons by this point had glanced up from their places to eye the poltergeist with annoyance at the disturbance. Beetlejuice simply reached into his pocket, paid for his drinks, and chucked a thumb at the door.

"Damn bothersome skeletons," he cackled weakly, trying to ease the tension, "you know I hate'm."

He was aware this was his cue to leave, as much as he dreaded it. Jacques was bad enough, but now come morning, he would have to deal with his parents and brother, the last three ghouls in the Neitherworld he had any desire to see. Sandworms sounded more appealing at the moment, and that was saying something.

He shoved his hands nonchalantly into his pockets once again and floated over to the door languidly. His mind was abuzz with rapid thoughts, and he had to shoo a few bees away from his face as they flew out his ears. The ghost was so distracted that he failed to notice the black hooded figure at the rear of the bar who watched him leave. The figure stood when Beetlejuice left, and then stealthily followed out the door and blended in with the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Beej and co. aren't mine, though it is fun to write about them!**

**A/N: Sorry for the time it took me to update! Hope you enjoy and please leave a review if you feel inspired to! Thanks for reading!**

Beetlejuice normally made it a habit to use floating as his means of travel, but the knowledge of who awaited him at the roadhouse was causing him to take his time. His booted feet were reluctantly bringing him closer to home with each heavy step, kicking any errant rocks which blocked his path. He kept his golden eyes focused on the ground, the view below him switching in a pattern of circles of illumination to blotches of hazy black as he passed under the street lights which lined the road. He growled curses in the back of his throat, infuriated utterances which seemed more aimed at himself than anyone else.

He was also aware of how silent the night was, and that was a lot coming from a denizen of the realm of the dead. He had taken this path home from the bar hundreds of times and it was second nature to him. Usually he could make out the distant sounds of dogs barking or bottles clattering in the alleys, but the only sound was the crunching of the gravel under his feet. He was vaguely cognizant that he should be concerned by this, but was so preoccupied by his own inner turmoil for the concern to be any more than a humming mosquito in his ear.

The slight breeze ruffled through his straw colored mop of hair like delicate fingers attempting to comb through the tangled mess. It carried on it the familiar scents of the Neitherworld, an earthy mix of dirt and decay, wet leaves and rotting wood. However, there was a hint of something more in the air that night, a sweet lavender that laced subtly on the fringes of the wind, pulling at the corners of his mind like a child in a frantic game of tug o' war. He frowned deeply at the unwanted mind play, his scowl and deeply furrowed brow one of an individual weary of a repeated unpleasant stimulus.

He had lost track of how much time had lapsed on his trek home, but the night was still heavy around him, darkly blanketing the land in a shroud of ink, so he knew the morning was still a few hours away. He wanted to drown out everything around him and focus solely on his feet, concentrating on their progress across the ground. However, his concentration was broken by a brief, bright flash of light to his left. He instinctively shielded his eyes as his head whipped up in the direction of the light.

Barely discernible in the dull illumination of the street lamps was a dilapidated store front which Beetlejuice could not recall ever having passed before on the many times he had taken this road. Nevertheless, from the outward exterior of it, it appeared to have been set there for many centuries. Most of the buildings in the Neitherworld were worse for wear, but this one put most of the others the poltergeist had seen to shame.

The building probably at one point had been painted white, but most of the wood was bare with a few straggling curls of dirty white paint chips clinging on as if they were the sole survivors of the apocalypse. The door was bent at an impossibly odd angle and the shutters to the windows lay splintered and forgotten on the front steps. It wasn't the sudden appearance of the building which held his rapt attention, but the source of the brilliant flash, an elaborate mirror situated in the display window. It was grey with an oval shape, attached to a desk, and adorned with two gargoyles, one on each side. Beetlejuice normally would have paid no attention to furniture, let alone a mirror, but something about it felt familiar. Curiosity getting the better of him, he found himself heading for the store to get a closer look at the mirror. It drew him in, subconsciously luring him, a nagging memory hiding behind walls of blank slate.

With a thoughtful hand on his chin, he cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing the mirror as if he were an elite art critic. He squinted his eyes, racking his brain futilely as to where he had beheld this mirror before. He grimaced at the effort, flinging his hands back to his sides roughly and abruptly turning around to leave. He could feel the frustration mounting, rustling below the surface like fidgeting squirrel in the grass.

The sensations of déjà vu at seemingly random objects or situations were beginning to wear on him and fray at the ends of his already limited patience. He was at the point now where he just wanted to get home and tuck himself away in his coffin bed, alone and away from these feelings. They had no place in his head, and he longed to rid himself of them. He took a few steps away from the odd building, but twirled back around when he heard a voice behind him.

"Are you Beetlejuice?" a slick whispering voice spoke. It reminded the ghoul of oil gliding across the surface of water.

Beetlejuice narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "I might be the B-man," he said cryptically. "Depends on the circumstances."

A figure emerged from the entrance to the store the shadows melting away from the being as it stepped into the dim yellow of the streetlights. It was completely garbed in flowing black robes, and its face was covered in a black hood. Beetlejuice could not make out any detail of the person, except that it was taller than himself. Beetlejuice was not afraid of the being, but something about it made him feel on edge, prickling at his skin like hoards of pine needles.

"I just noticed you looking at my most prized piece," the figure explained, "Very few have such exquisite taste, so I figured only the great Beetlejuice would take notice of such fine craftsmanship."

Never one to back down from praise, Beetlejuice felt his caution dripping away and his ego marching to the surface. He puffed out his chest and grinned widely his expression full of pride.

"Well, then, you've got the right poltergeist there."

The hooded figure clapped its hands once in delight. "Wooonderful," it drawled. "I have heard that for the last few years, you've lost a bit of your joie de vivre, so to speak. I want to help."

"Whadda you talking about? I'm as joie de vivre as ever, and I'm dead…I'm just that talented," Beetlejuice scoffed, trying to save face.

The being let out a disappointed "tsk" sound and shook its head. "I don't think you're fooling anyone with your act anymore, Beetlejuice."

Beetlejuice opened his mouth to make a retort, but rescinded mid word. He grew sullen as the creature's observation hit home. He crossed his arms, his guard up again.

"I don't need help. I'm just peachy, see?" he pouted as he morphed into a peach before becoming himself again.

"Of course," the creature chuckled dryly and without humor, "if you are a rotten peach."

"Jes' get to the point, ya creep," Beetlejuice growled. "I ain't got all night and yer gettin' on my last nerve."

"Very well," it responded. "I know you seek answers. You feel things that are so minute, like a feather in the wind…yet seem so familiar to you that it irks you greatly that you cannot place _why._ Am I correct?"

Beetlejuice kept a disinterested expression, but his eyebrow twitched slightly, betraying his shock. How did this thing know that? He fidgeted and jammed his hands so deep in his pockets he could faintly hear the seams ripping at the pressure.

"M-maybe," the poltergeist stuttered.

"Take the mirror. Everything begins and ends there," the hooded thing said as it vanished into the building and came out with the mirror in its hands.

It put the mirror down on the ground and motioned for Beetlejuice to take it. The ghoul again felt the magnetic pull to it, almost like it belonged to him and him alone.

"Is this…_mine_?" he asked himself absently. "Where do I know it from?"

"You will know soon enough, Beetlejuice," the figure said.

"I don't have to pay you or nuttin', do I?" Beetlejuice questioned, his voice hesitant and clipped.

"No, my friend, not at all. Consider it a gift."

"Don't expect me to thank you," Beetlejuice muttered, "cuz I don't do that stuff."

"The end result will be thanks enough," the creature said mysteriously.

Beetlejuice shrugged, but didn't inquire about the being's statement. He grabbed the mirror, marveling at the weight of it, and began to head home. He turned around to take one last look at the strange store and storekeeper, but both were gone.

"Hmph," he shrugged again. "Weirdo. If anything, I could probably sell this piece of junk. His loss."

He put no voice to his true feelings of unease, though it screamed in his mind almost demanding release. Everything about this seemed off, but the being had said that this mirror could give him the answers. Did he want answers? Anything to end these years of torment and doubt…

The roadhouse was just around the corner now, and he hastened his pace to arrive there sooner. He was eager to investigate this mirror, eager for his answers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Burton's the genius behind these guys, not me.**

**A/N: Here we get to see Lydia, enjoy and thanks for the reviews! I eat them with crunchy beetles!**

_Tucked in the darkest corners of her dreams, she was aware something was missing. Cloaked in shadows and dangling just beyond her reach, it beckoned her like a siren's song. She would eagerly pursue it, but the more she followed, the more it eluded her wanting grasp. Other times she would glimpse a flash of something she felt she should remember, or hear a voice that did not belong to anyone she was acquainted with yet seemed to resonate with her very soul…_

_And then she would awaken and it was gone again, a lost puzzle piece so carelessly swept under the couch. The tears had ceased years ago at these dreams, but the aching emptiness they left behind refused to dissipate no matter how much time elapsed. It felt so genuine that she had to keep grudgingly reminding herself that that was certainly not the case. So why was it that such fleeting sensations meant more to her than the waking world? What was it that filled her with such longing…a longing for something – no someone – whom she did not even believe she knew…_

Lydia Deetz sighed heavily and dragged herself out of bed. Her alarm clock was buzzing feebly on the ground like a panicking bee in its last throws of life. She had apparently subconsciously knocked it off her nightstand again, which she tended to do when she had those ethereal dreams and was dead to the world. She scowled at the offending timepiece and kicked it under her bed where it continued to alert, muffled amongst the cover of dust which now surrounded it.

She went about her morning routine to get ready for work with no heart behind her mechanical motions, like a preprogrammed automaton with no enthusiasm for the task. It was a repetition of every morning: shower; get dressed; breakfast; work. As she sat unceremoniously eating her cereal she glanced wistfully at the camera on the table next to her. She languidly ran her fingers over the glossy black item, savoring its smooth texture. She took it in her petite hands and grinned slightly at it. Photography was where her true passion lay, and it was proven by the college degree proudly displayed on the wall behind her. Unfortunately, however, there was not much of a calling for photographers with her…macabre taste.

She was thus stuck working at the Peaceful Pines coffee shop as a barista. She frowned at the thought as she gently placed the camera back down and peeked at her watch with distain as it ticked closer to her shift starting. She could feel herself cringing internally with each stiff march forward of the second hand.

Lydia reluctantly stood, pushed her chair in, and threw her bowl in the sink with a clatter. Grabbing her purse and keys and shoving her feet into her combat style boots she went over to the door, hoping her shift would be at least semi-tolerable…especially considering what day it was…

Hand on the cool knob, she made ready to turn it when a gentle male voice from behind her made her retract her arm and turn around.

"Happy birthday, Pumpkin!" it was her father, Charles Deetz. Lydia could not help but feel her expression soften for her kind-hearted father. His loving, albeit nervous, nature could always coax a smile out of her. No matter how…odd…others had always considered her, Charles held a never ending wealth of pride and esteem for his only child. He continually had words of encouragement at the ready for her, pushing her to follow her dreams instead of giving up on them.

"Thank you, Dad," she grinned warmly at her father.

She had not expected anyone but her father to remember her birthday. Lydia kept to herself mostly, finding other people too gossipy and shallow to want to bother with. Not that she would admit it to anyone, but there were times that she was lonely…times when she felt she was apart from reality, invisible to all around her. But she refused to give up her dignity and sink to the bottomless levels of the superficial individuals around her just to feel accepted. It would be a fate worse than death to lose herself…as it was all she had. She yearned deeply for someone who knew her better than she even knew herself. Sometimes she felt that she did once have that, a connection to someone deeper than her very soul, but she readily dismissed it whenever it came to the surface of her mind. She brushed it away like errant crumbs as a childish fantasy that had no place in her adult mind. Reality was a harsh and frigid ice which claimed every corner of her being, and that was simply just the way it was.

"Do you have a few minutes?" her father inquired, oblivious to the inner turmoil which swirled through his daughter's mind at the moment. "I know you have to get to work, but I got you a present…" His expression was bright and expectant, full of the joy any parent feels while imagining the look on their child's face when they open a present that was carefully selected for their progeny.

Lydia's eyes flicked to her watch again, her mind made up before she even caught sight of the time. Was it really the end of the world if she was late for work?

"Sure, dad, I have a few minutes," she replied. She followed after him as he headed up the stairs toward her bedroom.

"I really hope you like it, Pumpkin," Charles babbled anxiously as they neared her room. "I'd like to think after 28 years I have a good handle on what you like. Delia said it was absolutely dreadful…"

Lydia chuckled lightly at her father's last comment. Delia, her step-mother, was the embodiment of Lydia's opposite. Delia was loud, vivacious, and loved color. The more color the better. Bright and bold was her running theme. She was an aspiring artist who had never gotten past the aspiring phase, try as she did. Lydia and her got along well enough the older she became, but they had never matured beyond the point of being pleasantly cordial to each other. There was no real connection or bond between the two. They were oil and water, co-existing side by side, but never really mixing.

"I'm sure I'll love…" Lydia's voice trailed off like mist in the early morning when she caught sight of her gift. Her words caught in her throat and she had to force them out. "Dad…it's…"

It was a mirror, and an old one at that. It was a bluish purple in color with a nightstand base that had a few drawers in it. The mirror itself was oval and held in place with two poles on either side with a single bat at the top of each one. Its design matched her four poster bed perfectly…almost as if they were part of a set.

"Do you like it?" Charles asked, his voice full of uncertainty. He took Lydia's reaction as one of dislike.

Lydia began to walk toward the mirror with smooth, slow steps, her hand stretched out in front of her. As if in a trance, she made her way over to the object, staring at her reflection on its surface as if she expected something else there. Her forehead creased in confusion, something nagging uncomfortably in the back of her mind, heavy like wet denim on her skin. She reached out her hand to touch it, taking in every detail, every texture of the mirror.

"Lydia?" her father asked in concern at her vacant expression.

Her father calling her name broke her concentration. She shook her head slightly and glanced over at him, affixing a very convincing fake smile on her face. "Yah, dad?"

"Are…are you ok?" Charles put a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

"Of course…" her voice was distant and strained. "And…thank you…this is a wonderful gift."

Charles' expression grew to one of relief as he grinned in satisfaction. "I _knew_ you'd love it! I found it in a new antique shop in town, and it just seemed to call out your name to me! Well, Pumpkin, I know you need to get to work, so I'll let you be. Maybe we can go out for dinner tonight. That would be nice."

Lydia half heard her father's words as her attention turned back to the mirror. There was something…familiar about it. She gazed at her reflection realizing how haggard and tired she appeared, dark circles ringing her eyes. Her head began to pound, throbbing like disjointed drum beats. Her mind felt overwhelmed, trying to sort through everything - she felt like an office worker surrounded by years of clutter; there was nowhere to file what was in front of her, and no way to access what was lost.

"Lydia! Are you alright?" her father's concerned words broke through her headache.

She waved a dismissive hand to her father and nodded her head numbly. "Just a headache. I think I need to lie down, take a nap or something."

"I will call the coffee shop and tell them you won't be in today. Call me if you need anything," Charles said softly as Lydia climbed onto her bed, not even bothering to put on the covers.

Lydia murmured a faint thank you as she slipped into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
